


Service in a Timely Fashion

by SilkWrites



Category: Nightcrawler (2014)
Genre: Car Sex, F/M, Hook-Up, Infidelity, Jake Gyllenhaal - Freeform, Light Bondage, POV Second Person, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, crackish self-indulgent non-explicit smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 07:59:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16991097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilkWrites/pseuds/SilkWrites
Summary: Imagine you’re in a stifling relationship and desperate enough to hook up with a stranger – and that stranger turns out to be Lou Bloom. Only one problem: you can only give him a limited amount of time to deliver. It’s a good thing he’s so efficient. And dexterous. This is a second-person perspective story inspired by a scene originally written by Dan Gilroy in an earlier draft of Nightcrawler (2014). This scene would have taken place near the beginning of the film, immediately following the scrapyard scene, but was cut from the final script. Every word of dialog in the diner scene, as well as the description of the setting and the character in this story, was written by Dan. What happens before that – and after – was created by my overactive imagination. Sorry/not sorry for the crack.EDIT: Why -- oh, WHY -- are so many people reading this NOW? Please, I beg of you. Someone leave me a comment to explain.





	Service in a Timely Fashion

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Nightcrawler (2014) script, 11/27/12 draft](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/440331) by Dan Gilroy. 



_…who am I? I’m a hard worker and a very fast learner. I set high goals and I’ve been told that I’m persistent. You will go home satisfied._

Your first impression of his personal ad was: _Jesus, what a pitch._  Followed swiftly by: _Damn, this sounds like what I **need**._ And you prayed for truth in advertising as you evaluated his photo. Between that salesman smile and those dark, heavy brows were ambitious and piercing blue eyes – promising _something,_ you hoped, that could take your mind off the double-shifts you’ve been pulling at work all week and the pressures and expectations of your joyless home life. You’d leave it – _all_ of it -- if you could _afford_ to in this economy. You don’t know when it became a marriage of convenience and splitting the bills, but it was too long ago. You’re looking in the vanity mirror, re-applying your lipstick, checking your eye shadow, arranging your bangs -- slapping a fresh façade over what feels weathered and worn by time and tedium. You’re still in your uniform, having come straight from the clinic, but you’re not the stereotypical Sexy Nurse. You’re in _scrubs_ , for fuck’s sake. Hopefully this guy’s as desperate as you are, because they’re what you’ve got to work with. You check your watch. 2:42 AM. _Shit_. You chafe at the harness life’s got you in. If you can only manage to break free for half an hour, it better be worth it.  At least it's enough to prove you're still _alive_. You hastily gather everything into your bag, gather your coat, and exit the car, heading around to the front of the all-night diner. Then you gather _yourself_ before making your entrance.

* * *

You look around at the sparsely-populated room. Then you spot him – it _has_ to be him. He’s neatly dressed in a freshly-pressed button-down shirt under a leather jacket, checking his reflection in the back of a spoon. He looks up and catches your eye, and it’s too late to back out now. You make your way across the stale carpet to him. And he stands to greet you. _Classy, for a hook-up._ His eyes are wide and scrutinizing, sweeping you from head to toe, and you know he’s comparing you to your picture. You know that picture’s five years old. He doesn’t seem to care. He’s wearing the same pleasant smile as in his photo.

You slide into the booth opposite him. He takes a seat again, interlacing his fingers on the table. You feel like you’re here for a job interview.

“Hi. I’m Lou.”

“No names.”

“That’s not my real name anyway.”

_…Okay._ You’re studying him as well. His appearance is so _tidy_ it’s almost anathema to the activity you’re here for.  And his photo must’ve been taken in better light. His sunken eyes and pallid complexion don’t quite mask the age gap between you.  He gives off an eager, earnest air. “Jesus, you’re young.”

“You’re in health care.” You’re thrown briefly off-balance by the non-sequitur. Ah -- he’s noticed the scrubs. You’ve noticed his _hands_.

You glance down, acknowledging your work clothes. “I just got off.”

“Can I take your coat?”

“No.” You clutch the leather lapels. You’re not planning to stay in here that long.

He doesn’t seem fazed at all. He’s smiling broadly, expectantly at you. “I got us some menus,” he announces enthusiastically. “The soup today is potato. There’s a special for $3.75 that comes with half a sandwich.”

_Unreal. Does he think of this as a **date?**_   “I’m not eating.” You’re meeting him here for _one thing only._

He drops his chin in response; there’s a beat where he seems to take stock, reassess the situation. “So. What do you have to do to become a nurse?”

“Get a degree,” you quip.

“What kind?” _Damn._ _He **is** persistent._

“LVN’s vocational. Registered’s an AND,” you answer dismissively. You didn’t come here to talk about your _job_. You’re more interested in his long, meticulously-manicured fingers, and the way they trace the droplets of condensation on his water glass.

“I’ll bet those cost money.”

“Well _yeah_.” 

“What about automation?”

This conversation just took a sharp left turn. “…What?”

“I recently read an article explaining that machines aren’t just assisting workers anymore but actually kicking them out of their jobs. I’m wondering if you’re seeing any of that in your work?”

_Okay – that’s enough._ Is this a hook up or a _business lunch?_ You check your watch pointedly. “Look, I got 30 minutes to get home. My husband caught me doing this before.”

Chuckling, he displays his wrist proudly, diner lights glancing off an expensive-looking timepiece that doesn’t quite fit. “My wife gave me this watch.”

–Yeah, _that’s_ a lie. There’s nobody at home feeding this stray pup, you’re sure of that. Why the act? You hope this man isn’t as milktoast as he’s pretending to be. Maybe he thinks that’s what you _want_.

“Did you _read_ my ad?” you ask.

“I don’t think so. I was driving.”

That’s what you thought. You lean forward, look him in the eye to make sure he catches your meaning.  “I’m not into guys who are nice. I mean I like it _rough_.”

He nods slowly, and the bottom drops out of his polite, nice-guy demeanor. His smile turns _hungrier_. His dark eyes swallow you whole. “Ok, I’m sure I can do that.”  His long fingers tap idly against his water glass. And you find yourself staring back, biting your lower lip, vibrating from the electric punch to your gut.

You’re up out of your seat. “We’ll use my car.”

* * *

He follows you around the back to where your SUV lurks, hidden from view. You open the rear passenger door and take a seat, perched on the edge, balls of your feet on the asphalt. You lean back to switch off the dome light. When you straighten up, he’s suddenly right there, standing at your knees just inside the open car door and staring down at you. _Jesus_.  “ _Now_ can I take your coat?” he asks.

You give him a look, then yank it off and toss it at him. The chill of winter air spreads gooseflesh across your arms.

“I like your make-up and your hair,” he compliments. “But I also like legs. You could have maybe changed into a skirt or at least some nice heels if you knew you were going on a date right after work.”

“This isn’t a date. Also, _fuck you._ ”

He nods, eyebrows raised, lips pressed together. “I thought that’s why we were both here, isn’t it?” His smile turns dangerous. “In the interest of time I think you should take off your pants. And your shirt probably.” You stare at him.

 “It’s cold,” you protest, already pulling off your V-neck over your head. And then you’re pushing down your pants. Because despite the unceremonious way he’s demanded it, you know you’ll feel a hundred percent sexier if you shed the scrubs. You have to laugh -- when you were growing up, your mother always told you to wear clean, matching underwear, so you wouldn’t be embarrassed if you ever got into an accident and wound up in the hospital. Well, you’ve done her one better. Bet she never imagined you’d be _working_ in a hospital, and that your reason for putting on clean, matching underwear that morning was a hasty post-work hook-up. She never imagined a _lot_ of things.  Lou – if that _is_ his real name – is in luck, because your clean, matching underwear happens to be a set of lacy lingerie, and you happen to wear it very well.

“You can put your coat back on.” He drapes it around your shoulders. You slide your arms into the sleeves, wondering if he’s going to be a boring _nice guy_ after all, but then you find yourself growing warmer – not just from the lined leather on your back, but from the way his eyes burn through you. It’s _flattering_ to be looked at like that. You pose a little for him, run your fingers across your chest, just to tease. He nods approvingly. It’s hard not to _notice_ how much he seems to enjoy the combination of leather and lace when you’re sitting at eye-level to his hips. His fingers are on his belt, unbuckling it. “I think we should have a safe word,” he says.

“Cacao,” you say.

“I’m allergic to chocolate.”

“Perfect.”

He tugs his belt free from his pants and stretches it in a loop, then snaps it against his hand. “I won’t leave any obvious marks,” he promises. A frisson runs through you, from your scalp to your navel. _Good -- no more Mr. Nice Guy._

“What if I can’t _say_ the safe word,” you ask, “because my mouth is—”

“Raise your left hand,” he answers quickly.

“Like at the dentist?”

“Like at the dentist.”

You check your watch. “I have less than twenty-six minutes now.”

He reaches out and those svelte fingers catch and firmly hold your chin, pad of his thumb softly tracing your lips. Your breath quivers. “How do you want to start?” he asks, pushing the thumb into your mouth. You’re guessing he’s picked up on the way you were looking at his hands.

“Just like this,” you answer around the digit, teething and tonguing it gently while you lean forward and open his fly. His run-of-the-mill white briefs are… _woefully_ unimaginative, but look and smell so impeccably _clean_ that you wonder if you’ve wandered into a laundry commercial. You push his thumb out of your mouth to deliver mocking revenge for his earlier comment. “If you knew you were going on a date, you could have worn something sexier than Fruit of the Loom.”

“You said this wasn’t a date.”

“Damn right it’s not,” you mutter, pulling two of his fingers back in your mouth and running your hand over the straining fabric. You look up to catch his expectant gaze. It’s been awhile since anyone looked at you the way _he_ does, reacted to you the way _he_ does, and it stirs up certain tingling _feelings_. You’re ready to see the goods, up close and personal.

As it turns out, you’ve unwrapped a _nice package._   You lean in and your lips offer a warm hello. He draws in a sharp breath. You give a more _extensive_ greeting, watching his reaction… which does _not_ disappoint. His fingers thread through your hair now, steadily _tugging_. You decide to introduce him to the back of your throat. You do and he loops the belt around the back of your neck to trap you close – but not so close as to take your freedom of movement. You gag a little; as much as you’ve fantasized about doing this to a stranger, you can only handle so much. He loosens the belt to give you more play. You back off slightly to recover; lean in again. The belt tightens. This back-and-forth goes on for a bit, but you’re keenly aware of the time, and the way he’s moving his hips and making sounds has you wanting _more_. You want what he promised in his ad. And besides, he’s letting in a draft. You wave your left hand vigorously and he releases you. “Is everything all right?” he asks.

“Your ad said, ‘You will go home satisfied,’” you remind him.

“This was _your_ idea,” he remarks in a cool, casual tone that’s incongruous with the part of him that’s now _weeping_ for attention. And then he adds in a polite and professional -- if slightly _impatient_ \-- voice: “I would never promise something I couldn’t deliver. What would satisfy you more?”

You’re astounded by his self-confidence. “Take me from behind,” you answer. “And it had _better_ be satisfying.” He nods slowly in understanding. You turn around and crawl forward into the back seat. “And close the door,” you add. It’s cold outside.

He does as you ask, a bit clumsily – even in an SUV, there’s some awkward effort in getting the door closed behind him, but he manages. And then you sense him _looming_ behind you in the tight space. There’s a pause, and you feel the sting of a leather belt against the backs of your thighs. You yelp.

“How was that?” he asks, in a telemarketer survey voice.

“Surprising,” you answer breathlessly. “Do it again.” You brace yourself, and he administers a few more blows, a little higher, across your plump rear cheeks. By now, you’re beyond ready. “Okay,” you pant. “We’re on the clock here.”

There’s a faint _ripping_ sound as he yanks down your lace panties – you hope that’s not anything major – and then you feel a squadron of fingers run up the backs of your thighs to invade you. You suck in your breath as they overrun your borders and take command. He _really_ knows what he’s doing. Biting your lip, you move reflexively against his touch; **now** you’re ready to believe his advertising. And then the fingers leave you, and before you can protest, you hear a rummaging sound, a tearing sound, and a _rubbery_ sound. Well good, you were about to insist, but it seems he’s pre-emptively thought about safe sex. Just because you’re living dangerously doesn’t mean you want to live _that_ dangerously. But you’re glad he wasn’t wearing it earlier; even the minty ones taste _nasty_ to you. In any case, at least you know what to expect next. You feel a shifting, his knees behind you depressing the seat cushions, and then it’s no longer his fingers that are at your gates. You lift your rump to encourage him a little, knuckles tightening around whatever edges of the seat cushion your hands can find. Then he’s gripping your waist with one hand with a wiry strength, and he invades you _properly_.

You gasp an approving moan. For someone so gaunt and slender, he’s certainly able to fill the void in your life.

“Can I assume this is meeting your standards for quality?”

_Really?_   “Uh -- so far, yes.” _I would like to order five more of these, please._ “Just – keep doing what you’re doing, and do more of it, a lot more.” You feel him lift your wrist. “–What are you doing now?”

“Checking the time.” His fingers on your watch-wrist shift and he artfully catches the other; pins them both down against the seat cushion beneath his large hands. “We have approximately twenty minutes.”

It’s a little difficult to manage this in the back seat, considering his height. You’ve got your elbows and chest against the leather-covered cushion, but even hunched over, he’s probably rubbing the back of his head against the ceiling. He hovers over your back, radiating warmth like a piston engine; this guy seems to burn on all cylinders and you’re wishing you had all night to test the limits of his energy. He lowers his head until you feel his hot breath in your ear. “You’ve been _irresponsible_ , haven’t you?  You’re an _untrustworthy_ partner. You should’ve gone straight home from work. I think people usually get what they _deserve_ , don’t you?”  This is… arguably not the _nastiest_ dirty talk you’ve ever heard, but there’s nevertheless something _menacing_ in the delivery that has you grinding your ass against him.

“Yeah, I’ve run away from home,” you smirk. “I should be put on a leash.”

His hands release your wrists and moment later you feel the belt slip around your neck, snugging like a collar. You have _no_ idea how he managed to do that so quickly. This man is a magician. “Yeah, like _that_ ,” you sputter, heart pounding.

And now you feel his fingers slipping between you and the seat cushion, exploring their way down the front of your body, working their magic. _Christ_. You can’t even make your _own_ fingers feel that good. How is he—

His other hand’s in your hair again, tugging persistently to anchor you against his thrusting. You hear his breathing get heavier; yours matches his gasp for gasp. The windows are fogging up.

“ _Fuck_ , Lou---”

“You said no names.”

“That’s not your real name anyway,” you grit, writhing rhythmically under him. And then, words escape you altogether, and for who knows how long, he makes you forget about _time_ until your car echoes with the cries of pleasure he elicits from you. You hear him moments later, feel him tensing and bucking behind you, as feral and unfettered as you are tamed and harnessed.  Then you feel his weight collapse on your back, hear his ragged breathing in your ear as your own pleasure pulses out. Oh, he made _good_ on his promise. Too bad you can’t leave a review on his personal ad. _10/10, would recommend...._ You lie there panting for several seconds, then you feel his weight shift off you slightly. His hand lifts your wrist again. He _could_ check his own watch. Yet he keeps checking _yours_. “You still have about twelve minutes to get home. I think I should move so you can get dressed.”

How he can be so clear-headed in this moment is beyond you; you’re in a stupor.

He is a model of efficiency as he tidies himself up; you note that he’s careful not to leave any evidence in your car, disposing of it properly in a small bag from his jacket pocket. He is _weirdly_ prepared. You feel his belt loosen and slip from your neck, hear the buckle jingle as he re-threads it around his waist. He hands you your scrubs and thanks you politely, wishes you good luck, and _shakes your hand_ before exiting the vehicle. You stare after him as he vanishes into the gloom.

* * *

Back in the driver’s seat, you check yourself in the mirror. Your hair is profoundly mussed, but your lipstick’s only barely smudged. And true to his word, there are no lasting marks; no teeth marks, scratches or bruises. Only the lasting, indelible impression he’s made on your memory. You fix your hair.

Neat and presentable and for all appearances innocent, you turn the key in the ignition, bracing yourself for re-entry into your regimented life. There is so much of what just happened that you’re wrestling with, trying to absorb. You wonder whether you’ll ever see him again. Probably not. But for a few hot, earth-shattering minutes, you were with someone who made you feel valued and worked hard to provide the excellent service you deserved.

And then you think about what he said – about people often getting what they deserve. You think about your life. And you wonder if you’ll ever be willing to risk _enough_ for any real change.

Maybe next time you want to be politely abused – you’ll just call a customer service hotline.

**Author's Note:**

> I have to say I am not a fan of infidelity and would not have chosen to make that part of the story, but I’m using Dan’s framework as a jumping-off point and wanted to accept and embrace what he’d created. I appreciate Dan Gilroy so much as a writer/director because he’s so interested in how environment shapes a person and their choices. I’m sure that when he originally wrote this scene, he had to imagine for Lou a scenario where his efforts – his attempts to woo his “date” – went unappreciated, and there was no potential future for them. Because this constant application of effort while running into brick walls of rejection is Lou’s canon – it’s what shapes him as a person. It also seems Lou is always struggling to beat the clock – and this encounter is no exception.


End file.
